As Ed Djiak came into the room Martha said brightly, “See who’s come to visit us? You’ll never recognize her from the little Victoria she used to be!”
Ed Djiak was tall. All the lines in his face and body were elongated, like a Modigliani painting, from his long, cavernous face to his long, dangling fingers. Caroline and Louisa inherited their short, square good looks from Martha. Who knows where their lively tempers came from.
“So, Victoria. You went off to the University of Chicago and got too good for the old neighborhood, huh?” He grunted and shifted a sack of groceries onto the table. “I got the apples and pork chops, but the beans didn’t look right so I didn’t buy any.”
Martha quickly unpacked the groceries and stowed them and the bag in their appointed cells. “Victoria and I were just having some coffee, Ed. You want a cup?”
“You think I’m some old lady to drink coffee in the middle of the day? Get me a beer.”
He sat down at the end of the small table. Martha moved to the refrigerator, which stood immediately to his side, and took a Pabst from the bottom shelf She poured it carefully into a glass mug and put the can in the trash.
“I’ve been visiting Louisa,” I said to him. “I’m sorry she’s in such bad shape. But her spirits are impressive.”
“We suffered for her for twenty-five years. Now it’s her turn to suffer a little, huh?” He stared at me with sneering, angry eyes.
“Spell it out for me, Mr. Djiak,” I said offensively. “What’d she do to make you suffer so?”
Martha made a little noise in her throat. “Victoria is working as a detective now, Ed. Isn’t that nice?”
He ignored her. “You’re just like your mother, you know. She used to carry on like Louisa was some kind of saint, instead of the whore she really was. You’re just as bad. What did she do to me? Got herself pregnant. Used my name. Stayed in the neighborhood flaunting her baby instead of going off to the sisters the way we arranged for her to do.”
“Louisa got herself pregnant?” I echoed. “With a turkey baster in the basement, you mean? There wasn’t a man involved?”
Martha sucked in a nervous breath. “Victoria. We don’t like to talk about these things.”
“No, we don’t,” Ed agreed nastily, turning to her. “Your daughter. You couldn’t control her. For twenty-five years the neighbors whispered behind my back, and now I have to be insulted in my own house by that Italian bitch’s daughter.”
My face turned hot. “You’re disgusting, Djiak. You’re terrified of women. You hate your own wife and daughter. No wonder Louisa turned to someone else for a little affection. Who was it to get you so exercised? Your local priest?”
He sprang up from the table, knocking over his beer stein, and hit me in the mouth. “Get out of my house, you mongrel bitch! Don’t ever come back with your filthy mind, your vile tongue!”
I got up slowly and went over to stand in front of him, my face close enough to smell the beer on his breath. “You may not insult my mother, Djiak. Any other garbage from the cesspool you call a mind I’ll tolerate. But you ever insult my mother again in my hearing I will break your neck.”
I stared at him fiercely until he turned his head uneasily away.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Djiak. Thanks for the coffee.”
She was on her knees mopping the floor by the time I got to the kitchen door. The beer had soaked through my socks. In the entry way I paused to take them off, slipping my bare feet into my running shoes. Mrs. Djiak came up behind me, cleaning my beery footprints.
“I begged you not to talk to him about it, Victoria.”
“Mrs. Djiak, all I want is Caroline’s father’s name. Tell me and I won’t bother you anymore.”
“You mustn’t come back. He will call the police. Or perhaps even shoot you himself.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll bring my gun the next time I come.” I fished a card from my handbag. “Call me if you change your mind.”
She didn’t say anything, but she took the card and tucked it into her apron pocket. I pulled the gleaming door open and left her frowning in the entryway.
5
The Simple Joys of Childhood
I sat in the car for a long time before my anger cooled and my breathing returned to normal. “How she made us suffer!” I mimicked savagely. Poor scared, spunky teenager. What courage it must have taken even to tell the Djiaks she was pregnant, let alone not to go to the home for unwed mothers they’d picked out for her. Girls in my high school class who hadn’t been as resilient returned with horrifying tales of backbreaking work, spartan rooms, poor nourishment as a nine-month punishment meted out by the nuns.